Even the thought of you, to me, an adventure – not exploit, but submission – a place I visit often, to explore, to frolic, to brood – and yet a place I know not, and cannot know, so vast are its breadths, its heights, its depths. Therein lies the mystery, in its denial of identification. Therein lies the interest, the infatuation, the obsession, the devotion, the love.

The feelings of you, though conjured, induced, imagined, are more precise, arising as they do from my own perceptions. So much so, they excite and commingle all of my senses; they arouse me, trans-sensually; they send quivers of titillation throughout my body; they make my dick hard, and, even without manipulation, they usher me to ejaculation. As in thrall to the most graphic of pornography, visual and audible, transfixing me, all at once, here and there, then everywhere, again, and again – all of my thick, warm, piquant semen, spilled into the palm of my hand – just for you.

At another time, in another world, I would be fucking you, inseminating you, impregnating you, rendering you with beautiful child – the miracle of our beautifully wayward love affair. Not as a perverse extension of my rebellious poet’s ego – our incomparable miracle of mist born – but as a further manifestation of the sublime wonder and magic of you – my angel, my goddess, my queen, my muse, my sister, the single adoration of my poet’s heart, mind, and soul.

As we began, together, in a past more distant than recollection, our ending, together, lies beyond all measure, so remote, it surpasses any and every notion of our perceivable futures, surmounting these lives, certainly, and into our next lives, and the next, and the next… Within the context of now, then, we, together, or I, alone,  must continue, intensely, passionately, unfalteringly, to surrender, one to the other, or I, to you, as if this were the only life I have known, the only life I know, the only life I will come to know.